


More Clown Than Angel

by NyxieBlack



Category: Azrael: Agent of the Bat (Comics), DCU (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Undercover, batfam, but im not gonna get too bogged down with canon details, circus shenanigans, i'm mostly writing the pre-flashpoint versions of these characters, im taking what i like
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-09-30
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:32:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19442452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NyxieBlack/pseuds/NyxieBlack
Summary: Jean-Paul Valley is on an undercover mission at the circus when things take a turn, and who other than Deadman has to intervene.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New Az fic! Hope you like!

“Join a circus. You are more clown than angel.” That was what a wise old witch had told Jean-Paul Valley, what felt like an age ago. Part of him wondered what she’d think of him now, decked out in an honest-to-goodness clown costume, at the behest of the World’s Greatest Detective. A much larger part of him was vainly trying to get his body to move out of the way of the rampaging lion that had just snapped free of the lion tamer, and was now bearing down on poor, terrified Jean-Paul. 

* * *

Deadman liked going to the circus. Yeah, it mighta been the site of his untimely demise, but let an old ghost have his nostalgia, wouldja? He might not be sure anymore exactly what year he died, or even clearly recall all the people he was in the circus with, but he felt at home beneath the big top. He loved hearing the excited chatter of the crowd. The idea that the performers were putting life and limb on the line made the audience practically buzz with morbid anticipation of the worst. No matter what, Deadman always found himself back at the circus. This time, it was lucky he was there. Floating above the action, Deadman saw a lion get free and charge at some unlucky clown. 

He was down there in an instant, diving into Jean-Paul’s body and leaping out of the way of the cantankerous cat. Looking through borrowed eyes, what Deadman saw was pure pandemonium. The members of the audience whose eyes weren’t glued to the action were pushing towards the exits, creating a traffic jam of panicked pedestrians. The lion tamer was focused on the other felines, who were restrained but distressed. Two other clowns had been performing just a moment before but had since split. Which left it up to Deadman to take care of the cat 

_What have we got here?_ Deadman wondered, looking around for any tool that could help. Not much aside from a box of props and a folding table holding many a pie. Off to the side was a tiny clown car. Deadman could make out the white-rimmed eyes and spikey blue wig of another clown, peeking from behind the car’s glass window. 

The lion made a low rumble, eyes dilated, circling Deadman. 

_Pie will have to do the trick,_ thought Deadman, lunging for the table. 

The sudden movement triggered the lion’s instincts, and it leapt for Deadman, claws out, jaws open. 

Has he sprung even a second later, Deadman—or, Jean-Paul—would have been Meow Mix. Deadman didn’t have the best aim—he was an aerialist, not a sharp-shooter—but there was something about this body that helped pie after pie successfully hit their target. 

He had mixed success. The cat was slowed but still conscious, still on all four paws, and still angry. Deadman heard the click of a gun being cocked somewhere behind him. A tranquilizer dart whizzed by, missing both him and the lion. 

_Blast it!_ he thought. What now? 

The feline was distracted by the whipped cream and crust caked on its face. See, Deadman wasn’t too familiar with how cats work, but he’d picked up a few tricks. 

He had to be careful. He sidled to the side of the pernicious pussy, slowly inching closer as he did. From this side, he could see the lion tamer, who, with the other lions safely put away, was reloading his tranquilizer gun. Deadman hoped the lion tamer was smart enough to not try to shoot again as he vaulted onto the lion’s back. The animal reared up, but Deadman had both hands on the cat’s scruff. His guess was that it would calm down like a common housecat. With the lion writhing to and fro beneath him, he had guessed wrong. That’s when he saw the lion tamer pointing the tranquilizer gun directly at the lion. 

As Deadman saw it, he had two options: jump off the cat and get mauled or hang on for dear life, taking his chances with getting tranq’d. At least if he got stuck with a dart, the body he was borrowing would be out cold for the mauling, right? 

The lion tamer pulled the trigger. Deadman saw the dart exit the gun, fly towards him and the lion, and—thank Rama—bury itself in the lion’s pelt. The lion fell over, unconscious. Deadman rolled off it as it fell, his back on the dirt ground. 

_Time to split!_ Deadman thought, evacuating Jean-Paul’s body as the circus folk who had been watching from the wings rushed over. 

* * *

**Earlier.**

“So, here’s the deal, Bright Eyes,” Oracle spoke through Jean-Paul’s earpiece, as he zoomed his way down a rural road, away from Gotham, to the coordinates Oracle forwarded to him. Oracle continued, “And this one comes from the big Bat himself, so listen close.” 

“I’m all ears,” Jean-Paul replied, his Azrael costume in a backpack in the passenger seat, trees zipping by the windows of the yellow VW Beetle Batman lent him. Once he had been assigned a much nicer vehicle, for a minor mission involving a vampire and a couple of mad scientists, but that had gotten ransacked almost as soon as he turned his back on it. For the time being, at least, the little yellow Beetle was the Az-mobile. 

“It’s a doozy,” Oracle replied, a smile in her voice. 

“You could have forwarded me the documents and saved me from all this anticipation, you know.” 

“Not when I know you read them while driving. Trust me, it’s best if I just tell you what I’ve got.” Jean-Paul heard a couple mouse clicks from her side before she spoke again. “You know what? Do me a massive favor and pull over real quick.” 

“Okay?” he replied, pulling to the side of the gravel road. “I’m pulled over.” 

“Good.” The smile in her voice seemed louder than before. “Check your trunk. I had Alfred put something in there before you left.” 

“I don’t have a great feeling about this,” replied Jean-Paul, exiting the car and circling to the trunk. When he turned the key to open it, his eyes fell on a simple black duffle. “I’m opening the bag now, Oracle,” he spoke through the commlink as he unzipped it. 

She sing-songed, “And what do you think?” 

The bright red, curly wig was what Jean-Paul saw first, then the oversized tie, the bright purple suspenders, the teal polyester pants that were at least five sizes too big, and the excessively large shoes. It was a few moments before he responded with: “Oh. Uh, wow. Really?” 

Oracle’s laughter was distorted by the mic. 

“Oracle? You doing okay over there?” Jean-Paul asked, still rummaging through the bag, Rubber chicken. Boutonniere that could shoot water. _Lots_ of pancake makeup. 

Oracle gasped through one last laugh before replying. “Yeah, all good. Alfred and I had a lot of fun looking through circus supply catalogues, for what it’s worth. He has way more opinions about clowns than you’d think.” 

Jean-Paul had to smile at the thought of Alfred weighing in on different styles of oversized shoes with his usual dry sarcasm. “So what _exactly_ am I using these for?” he asked. 

“You know those posters for the circus that have been popping up all over town?” 

Jean-Paul made a noise of confirmation. 

“For one thing,” Oracle started. “We’ve been finding coordinates written on the back of every poster. They all lead to places inside Gotham, and we’ve been keeping an eye on them. Nothing’s happened yet, but Batman thinks they’re drop points for _something._ Most likely drugs or guns, but with this city? You never know.” 

“Uh-huh,” Jean-Paul replied, zipping the duffle bag shut and placing it back in the trunk. “And why am I out in the middle of nowhere if this is going on inside the city?” 

“We don’t currently know whether the circus itself is behind the operation, or if it’s a third party doing it, so Batman needed someone to check it out, Nightwing was booked up, and…” 

“…I need to dress up like a clown and see if there’s anything fishy going on,” Jean-Paul finished, shutting and locking the trunk before crossing back to the driver’s seat. 

“Bingo,” Oracle replied. 

_A job’s a job,_ Jean-Paul thought, returning his key to the ignition. He could see something that might have been the giant, candy-striped circus tent on the horizon. “One hitch—I have no idea how to be a clown.” 

“I refuse to believe you didn’t learn any relevant skills when you were training with Robin,” Oracle replied. “And look at it this way—if you play your cards right, you probably won’t have to be Azrael at all. Your goal is to get in, figure out if the circus is up to something sketchy, and get out. We’ll give you more instructions from there.” 

Jean-Paul found that Oracle had a knack for saying exactly the right thing. “Sounds good to me,” he spoke over the comm. 

Get in, get out, wear a ridiculous costume while doing it. It wasn’t much different than usual, all things considered. The good chance of not having to maim anyone was a nice change of pace. 

* * *

**Now.**

Jean-Paul didn’t have so much as a wisp of a memory of what led to him being flat on his back on the dirt ground, looking up at red and white stripes of the circus tent, next to a snoozing, pie-covered jungle cat. There was only one explanation for this—Azrael. 

He didn’t like the thought. It had been a long time since Azrael had caused Jean-Paul to blackout. It his stomach turn to ice. 

“Hey, new guy, you okay?” One of Jean-Paul’s fellow clowns peeked out of a comedically small clown car. 

“Whuh?” Jean-Paul replied. “Yeah. Yes, I’m fine,” he lied. 

“Sure ya are, kid,” the clown said, exiting the novelty vehicle. “Let’s get you to first-aid or somethin’. You look shaky.” 

“Oh, okay,” Jean-Paul replied, letting the clown help him to his feet. 

Deadman watched the two exit the tent. The last thing he heard the clown say was, “With reflexes like that, I’m shocked you ain’t an acrobat!” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the slow updates lately--broke my ankle, so that threw me off my rhythm, then my work has been a repeated punch in the gut, plus the cat's sick, so I just haven't been feeling it, lately. I hope you the update! _Stereogram_ will hopefully be updated at some point in the next month, so keep an eye out for that, too.

Jean-Paul’s mind was whirling during his trip to the first-aid tent. After his fellow clown, Jim, had ushered him in, he knew what was going on around him well enough (some bruising, nothing to be worried about, doesn’t seem to have a concussion, should be able to perform tomorrow). However, he felt like he was shifting to and fro between the world in front of his eyes and what was going on in his own head. Before he knew it, he was in a well-used RV, seated in a folding chair, greasepaint washed off, changed into a comfortable t-shirt and athletic shorts. He was less shaky than earlier, yes, but he dreaded updating Oracle on the situation, telling her that he didn’t think he should continue this mission. It wasn’t safe to be around many people when Azrael could take over at any time. 

An iron kettle on a portable electric burner unleashed a high-pitched “FWEEE!” before Jim took it off the heat. As far as Jean-Paul was concerned, it was just him and the balding man with brown curls in the vehicle. He hadn’t an inkling that the late Boston Brand joined them, observing the conversation. 

“You like whiskey in your cocoa?” Jim asked Jean-Paul, ripping open a packet of instant hot chocolate and emptying the powder into a stained mug. 

“No, thank you,” Jean-Paul replied. 

“You sure? Calms the nerves,” Jim replied, pouring hot water into the mug and following it with a hefty dose of Jack Daniels. 

Jean-Paul relieved Jim of the spiked drink and took a swig. He grimaced at the way the hot, bitter liquid burned in more ways than one on the way down. 

Jim gulped down own hot cocoa. “Puts hair on the chest, don’t it?” 

“Yeah,” he replied, coughing. 

If Deadman told you that he was in any way interested in this small talk, he would be lying. It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, and this Jean-Paul guy was… _off_ , somehow. 

You see, when Deadman took over a body, the usual resident of that body went dormant. Some bodies had “muscle memory,” which Deadman assumed was what helped him deftly land those pies on target earlier. But there was something else, too. He didn’t notice it until he exited the kid’s body. A bad aftertaste. It was more crowded than usual in there. The kid wasn’t your average clown, and Deadman wanted to know _why._

“Where were you workin’ before, to pick up reflexes like that?” Jim asked. His tone was jovial. He spoke in a way that made Jean-Paul want to trust him, and in a way that raised Deadman’s hackles. Jim seemed to him like the type of guy who’d sell you on shiny promises of friendship and family to trap you in a lousy contract. 

A knock at the door saved Jean-Paul from having to recite his cover story. 

“Ah! Company!” Jim cried. “Come on in!” 

The door eased open, and nine other than the lion tamer poked his head in. “Hey, new guy, I’m just swingin’ by to apologize for earlier.” 

“It’s nothing,” Jean-Paul said, the canned phrase leaving his mouth before he could think on whether someone nearly being responsible for his death was “nothing”. 

“Ha!” the lion tamer replied, fully entering the room and shutting the door behind him. He was a lanky man with a handlebar mustache. “Really though, I don’t know what got into Lazy Dan! I swear, he’s usually the sweetest thing. I gotcha a little something, as an apology. Hope this makes up for it.” The lion tamer handed Jean-Paul a six-pack of Milwaukee’s Best. Well, a five-pack. The lion tamer had one of the cans of beer open in his hand. 

“What kinda joker drinks his own apology gift?” Deadman grumbled to himself. 

Before Jean-Paul could thank the mustachioed man, he was talking again. “Name’s Mercurio, by the way.” He held his hand out. “Yours?” 

“Jean-Paul,” Jean-Paul replied, leaning forward in his folding chair to grasp Mercurio’s hand. 

“Good handshake you got there,” Mercurio said with a toothy grin. 

Mercurio and Jim were quick to strike up a lively conversation consisting primarily of shop talk and gossip. Jean-Paul was able to fake his way through most questions posed to him, but eventually Mercurio and Jim stopped asking him things as the topic shifted more and more towards names Jean-Paul didn’t yet know. 

He was having a hard time trying to keep these names straight in his head without faces to match them to, and he wasn’t yet sure which bit of gossip might come in handy later, so he tried to mentally file away all of it. Barbara—or Stacey?—was fighting with Artie over who would get to do the big fire-juggling finale. Meanwhile, Ernest—or Artie?—wanted more money to replace the safety nets, but whoever was in charge of that (Martha or Caleb) wouldn’t cough up the funds. 

Jean-Paul only had a couple sips of his spiked hot cocoa before abandoning the project to sit quietly as Jim and Mercurio steadily got drunker. He noticed that the more critical of their bosses Mercurio got, the more Jim tried to gently defend them. Eventually, it was midnight, and Jean-Paul was sixty minutes deep into a conversation about an old TV show he had neither seen nor heard of. There was no mention of posters or Gotham or drop points or even of crimes outside of shoplifting and smoking the occasional joint. Based on Batman’s annoyance at being contacted for those two things back when Jean-Paul had to go undercover at BatBurger, it wasn’t a pressing matter. He didn’t feel as though he would miss much if he excused himself and shuffled off to his shared trailer, so he bid the two circus veterans a good night and slunk off to his bunk. 

When he got there, he saw that the other circus clown (Lucy? Barbara? Dang it, of all the circus folk he’d met, he’d hoped at least the other clowns’ names would stick in his brain) was fast asleep, so he tried to find a sufficiently isolated spot outside to contact Oracle on the situation. 

* * *

Deadman blew that scene about an hour before Jean-Paul did, and was floating around the circus’s campsite, listening for something interesting. He’d check in on the kid later, promise. He was watching a merry group gathered around a bonfire when he heard an irate voice issuing forth from a nearby trailer. Deadman departed from the laughing, the dancing, the banjo strumming to investigate the less happy situation. 

This voice met Deadman at the ajar door. “…almost died, Caleb! If that doesn’t convince you to buy better safety equipment, I don’t know what will!” 

“Mercurio has been with us for over a decade, and he assured me that he has everything under control.” 

Deadman phased through the wall of the trailer to see an older man sitting behind a desk, and a younger one, stance tense, fists balled up. “Oh yeah?” the younger man replied. “And what about the shoddy nets? When was the last time the clown car was serviced? What precautions are you taking to make sure nothing catches fire during the torch-juggling act? This place is a deathtrap. Anyone could sue you for that and win.” 

That sure sounded like a threat, but Caleb sat quiet, face smooth of all emotion. He spoke after a moment. “Artie,” he said. “You’re a good worker, and I like having you around.” _Boss-speak for ‘You make me too much money to get rid of,’_ Deadman thought. Caleb continued his little speech. “This circus is full of seasoned professionals who know how to work with what they have. This circus runs on trust. And we need that trust from everyone.” 

Artie let out a harsh, mirthless laugh. “ _Trust?_ You’re using _trust_ as the reason you keep putting _us_ and the _audience_ at risk?!” This Caleb guy didn’t seem like he was going to budge, and Deadman assumed Artie had come to the same conclusion. “Jesus Christ, what’ll it take for you to cough up a penny for this? An actual death?” 

That little jab poked a hole in Caleb’s façade. His voice chilled Deadman’s already cold bones. “I think you’ve said enough, Arthur.” 

Artie’s eye twitched in response to his full first name. 

Caleb continued, “I think we should pick up this conversation tomorrow, don’t you?” 

“Fine,” Artie replied. 

“Besides,” Caleb continued, calm as ever. “I’m sure you have things to attend to, what with your sneaking around. You make hanging posters look like an illegal activity, from what I’ve heard.” 

This was the first time Deadman was hearing about this poster thing. Based on how wide Artie’s eyes went, it was worth paying attention to. 

“We’ll continue this tomorrow,” Artie stammered out. 

“Let’s,” was Caleb’s terse reply. 

Artie turned to exit the tent, moving faster than the average innocent person, Deadman reckoned. So, he floated just behind Artie. 

Deadman tracked him through the camp, past the bonfire still going strong, between a couple trailers, and past the privvies. There, he was distracted by a familiar voice. 

“I…I don’t think I can do this.” 

The kid.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to my uncle for telling me his least favorite brand of beer. May he never read this, haha. Anyways, hope you enjoyed! Comments, critiques, and kudos are all much appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! As usual--comments, kudos, critique are all much appreciated! ^^


End file.
